Monday, 11 July 2016

I don't know why I so often find myself writing blog posts when I'm exhausted - it's probably not the smartest move.

I think it's maybe because I get tired of presenting the polish, weary of buying into the idea that image trumps honesty. It might also be because I like to write about encouraging things, and those tend to be the things I reach for when I'm worn out.

Like this song.

Lots of Bethel and Amanda Cook songs, actually. But tonight, this song in particular. I didn't put it on - it came drifting down the stairs into the kitchen where I was cooking and its timeliness brought tears to my eyes. I am not feeling brave.

I am six months pregnant. I am supported by the best people in the world and I've had an incredible run of it so far; I appreciate the privilege and am beyond, beyond grateful. That's my disclaimer, because I'm not feeling that right now. Right now I am achy, I am terrified by how much and how fast my normally-static body is changing, and labour is starting to look pretty real. I'm wondering why I ever thought I was selfless enough to take this on and am totally overwhelmed at the thought of how much the new person on the other side of this experience is going to need me. Actually need me. Not just hypothetically want to be around me, but genuinely be dependent on me. The introverted, recovering perfectionist part of me struggles with that. That and the madness of moving house.

So I am teary, and not just because I'm tired and hormonal. I'm teary because this song reminds me that this is not about me. It was never going to be about me. I might not feel strong and selfless, but I am called to a life of faith not feelings. I might not feel capable and competent, but I am called to self-abandonment so that doesn't matter anyway.

"I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live,

but Christ lives in me.

The life I now live in the body,

I live by faith in the Son of God,

who loved me and gave himself for me."

(Galatians 2v20)

"Ah, Sovereign LORD,

you have made the heavens and the earth by your great power and outstretched arm.

Monday, 4 July 2016

There
was something timely about reading the majority of this book in the week after
the Brexit vote: immigration was at the forefront of my mind – a topic of
conversation being explored across various media from all sorts of
perspectives, ranging from the nuanced to the unsavoury and frankly
frightening.

In
the middle of that, this book spoke with particular eloquence. We can’t talk constructively
about these big issues without being open to information and challenge. We need
factual sources we can trust. But sometimes it seems that what effective public
discourse really requires is the ability to step into someone else’s story.
Fiction does that. This book does that.

It’s
a story I didn’t particularly love. I feel a bit embarrassed that I’m not
raving about it, because the cover boasts such high praise and the (Booker
prize-shortlisted) author is clearly celebrated for his proficiency. Who am I to
argue otherwise?

I
didn’t love it because it took me a long, long time to connect with the
narrative – to really get to that point of caring about the characters and
their dramas.

I’ve
puzzled about why that was the case. I think it maybe had something to do with
the third person narrative voice and lack of direct dialogue – not experiencing
things first-hand but being told about them, recounted through beautiful but
slightly arms-length prose. I wonder whether there was also something inherent
in the story itself – there is so much alienation between the characters; they
aren’t communicating with each other and maybe, as a reader, you’re supposed to
feel that sense of being on the outside of things too.

But
since finishing I’m asking a bigger question. I’m wondering whether I didn’t relate
to the characters because ultimately their lives are not like mine.

It’s
a story about people whose personalities and problems are not the same as mine;
whose backgrounds shade their present experience in ways I can’t connect to.
Their interpretation of the world is almost entirely “other” to mine – even where,
on paper, there should arguably be overlap.

Maybe
I didn’t love this book because a part of me just likes to surround myself with
stories that reinforce my own.

And
that just won’t do.

That kind of narrow-mindedness is at best unhelpful, but at
worst dangerous. So
I’m glad I persevered with this book. I’m glad I put in the time to get under
the skin of someone else’s story. And I’m glad that we have the freedom and artists
to help us glimpse different dimensions of the life we all share.